Human Fever
by Misskiramel
Summary: Wheatley has caught the flu and in Chell's attempt at creating a comfortable relaxing evening despite his discomfort, they get into a fever induced argument.  Human!Wheatley for *insert obscure reason here*, post portal 2, dysfunctional Chelley fluff?


Chell brought her fist down hard on top of the tv again, dangerously rattling the old electric box and wooden stand. The violent sound made Wheatley flinch behind her. The movement was unpleasant and very enthusiastic, enthusiastically unpleasant, combined with an erratic sort of jump. It had force enough to make the entire couch do his flinchy little jump thing along with him. Chell scowled, frustrated at the televisions screen, arms crossed in front of her chest. The box growled with static, seeming perpetually stuck on a channel broadcasting The Day After Tomorrow. Its screen glowed with a white, gray, and black blizzard.

"L-love I don't think crushing the poor thing is going to convince it to start working properly. I-I know its square, very not spherical, but that doesn't mean it likes being crushed. I know I don't like being crushed, not at all I don't. I-It's just a little thing; I bet it's doing the best it can, so please-"

Chell's head whipped around to glare at him over her shoulder. One of her universe stopping, AI murdering, deadly determined glares. Wheatley got the message; he shut up, shrinking frightened and dejectedly into his pile of blankets on the couch. "Sorry." He muttered quietly, quickly opting to stare down into the palms of his hands. His fingers were interwoven above his knees, legs drawn toward his chest.

Chell would be damned if she let a stupid television set get between her and a relaxing evening cuddling on the couch, watching her favorite old cartoons. It deserved to be crushed. She was sure that the hilarious cute little characters would make Wheatley feel better. It just had to start acting up now after working at relatively bearable efficiency all week.

However she took one look at him, hunched over on himself, curled forlornly into his lonely corner of the sofa. He was miserable. His body shook with fever and his face was flushed red. His eyes were swollen and exhausted, ringed with unhealthy gray shadows standing out against his sickly pale skin. His messy mouse brown hair, unable to decide whether it was a wavy disaster or a straight and spiky pineapple, clung to his forehead with cold sweat. An empty bowl, robin's egg blue and having once contained her homemade chicken noodle soup, sat on the small table beyond the arm of the sofa. Chell hopped he could keep it down this time. She sighed, shaking her head at him, but she relented. Instead of continuing to blame her ancient television for her friend's misfortune, Chell reached out and hit the off button. The screen, with crackling sounds like sparks hitting water, fizzled out and turned a dull flat black. She walked the few steps over to the ugly yellow and green sofa and let herself fall back into it beside him. The cushions seemed to swallow her up.

What were they supposed to do now? Just sit here? She looked over at Wheatley to see him grinning sheepishly at her. Chell saw the absolutely colossal mountain of blankets he was hogging. She didn't even know she had that many blankets in her house, where had he found them all again? His big wet blue eyes peaked out from under a seven layer blanket hood; he was a multicolored patchwork hill of fabric. She tugged at the blankets, stealing a maroon afghan for herself.

"Hey- I _need_ that-" He began to whine as she wrapped the wool blanket around herself. Outside her window snow was falling, and although it was nowhere near as cold as the outside world, it was chilly inside. Chell relished the heat the blanket provided, smiling as she drew it tighter around herself. One of his knobby shaky hands shot out from the depths of the blanket nest, grabbing onto the edge of the afghan she stole.

"Share." Chell insisted, trying to pull the edge of the blanket out of his grip. What was his problem? It was just one blanket, he had plenty.

"Stop being selfish! I'm the one who's sick, I'm freezing. You're perfectly healthy, clearly not in any danger, are you trying to kill me? Make me freeze to death are you?" He protested in indignation, tugging back in response.

_She_ was selfish? How dare he say that after she had taken care of his useless feverish self all day. Wasn't that a little extreme? Strangely, he actually appeared genuinely frightened, and Chell found it difficult to be too angry with him for the all too sickeningly familiar accusation. Instead she opted for raising her eyebrows at him.

"It's just one." She said, stubbornly fighting back for the blanket. He was going to rip it! Really, he was such a child. Why was it such a big deal?

"I need all the warm I can get or I'll die! One less is too much less. Ten minus one is… a lot less than ten! I'm already in danger of freezing to death with all of the blankets, in taking just one away your compromising my- my being alive-n-ness! You should be helping me, not making the situation worse!" He babbled in panic, continuing his part in their tug-of-war match with increased strength surprising for a man with the flu.

"You'll be fine." She insisted with a stony unshakable certainty, a tone that said _your being ridiculous_. She was one step away from rolling her eyes.

"No! I'll die! You obviously can't comprehend how cold I am, because I'm really really really cold! Space wasn't this cold and space is supposed to be the coldest thing there is, absolute zero they call it. See, I can back my position up with facts! Not a moron, going to die!" He argued, spewing words at a million miles per hour. He was bordering on hysterical, frantically trying to free the blanket loose of Chell's fingers. With one powerful yank on his end of the blanket, he dragged Chell closer to him across the couch cushions.

"You'll live!" She yelled stubbornly, tugging back, and pulling him twice the distance she had been dragged, toward her. If a Wheatley on a normal day was just about too much to handle, Wheatley with a fever was impossible. He had been thrown haphazardly into a body with emotions and feelings too intense and unpredictable for him to cope with in any acceptable manner after having been a machine for so many decades. He had no control. It made Chell's home resemble more of a psychiatric hospital, and the psychiatrists had made a run for it, she didn't think they were ever coming back. She never had a moment of peace, and Chell definitely was not a psychiatrist. She tried to help, but suspected she likely made things worse, she lost patience too quickly.

"Where's your proof? I'll _Die_!" He raved angrily, baring his teeth. Chell thought she heard the sound of blanket ripping.

"You'll live!" She all but snarled. Never mind, she didn't have patience, not for his senseless tantrums. He would have to learn that he wasn't the only person in the world! It was just a stupid blanket! He would learn the lesson most people did when they were five, he was going to share!

"Die!"

"live!"

"Die!"

"live!"

"Die!"

They screamed back and forth at one another.

"Nothing will happen; I assure you. You're going to be just fine!" Did she have to spell it out for him?

"Die! Die! Die! It's so cold! I'm going to die! How many times do I need to say it? Why is that so hard to understand!" In desperation he tried to make her see, with unnecessary volume that hurt her ears. His voice sounded chocked, like he was about to cry. His pupils had shrunk to pinpricks. Chell's expression, stony as she was dead set on having that afghan, wavered at the sight of tears in his eyes. "Please give it back?" He pleaded, softly this time, so quietly she for a moment questioned whether she had really heard it. His scared dewy, so blue eyes were what broke her.

"Fine!" _But only because you said please._ This time she wasn't arguing, she gave in. Chell threw the afghan at his face. He made a muffled surprised noise that sounded a lot like:

"Moof." He caught the ball of wool as it bounced off his nose.

"Wheatley, move over." She demanded. He was taken aback as she roughly started shoving him back into his corner of the couch. She pushed him over, forcing him to lie down on his side.

"W-wait, what are you- Hey!" Chell wormed her way under the blankets, into the space between his arms and his torso. Lying next to him, his arms draped around her, they could share the covers without lowering either's temperature in a compromise. "Oh, brilliant idea! Genius. Why didn't I think of that? Silly of me. There you go, that's using the ol'problem solving brain! That was a close one; I knew you wouldn't let me die. This… this is rather nice actually. I… I'm much warmer now, thank you." He blinked down at her in wonder as his anxiety vanished. The comfort of another human's touch and body heat washed over him. She was really good at this whole being human thing; Chell always knew exactly what to do to make things right. She had glimpsed the clock hanging on the wall over the yellow, floral wallpaper across the room. It was getting late, past ten already. Arguing had tired her out. Chell wrapped her arms around his chest, holding him close.

She careened her neck so she could kiss his forehead.

"Goodnight." She told him, sighing, she closed her eyes and buried her face into his shirt.

"Is it that time already? Goodnight to you to then. I think I'll just… go along with you if you don't mind, since I'm human now too, mostly. What was the saying? That thing they always said. When in Rome… do as the… the… Ro…" His words were lost in an obnoxious lion sized yawn. "You saved my life again today. I'm really lucky to have you, aren't I?" He murmured sleepily. Unconsciously he let his head droop. It leaned, pillowed in the curve of the side of her neck. As soon as his cheek connected with Chell's soft skin he felt himself slipping away. The transition to sleep was instantaneous.

He hadn't realized how tired he was. Darkness over took his fever exhausted mind like someone had dropped an inkwell onto the floor, the kind with infinite space inside, and infinite ink. It was very important that you not break them; the scientists had told him quiet harshly. He knew because he'd broken one once. Wheatley didn't quite understand why they had invented those inkwells, no one wrote with feathers anymore, at least no one that he had ever seen. The ceramic had shattered, and the black liquid washed out his vision, it drowned everything, flooded the world. A time machine and quite a few mops was what it had taken to put it all back; making everyone's lab coat white again was another matter entirely.


End file.
